Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body (7 page)

The cottage had probably once been a farm labourer’s cottage. It was made of red brick with a slate roof. The path up to the front door was of red brick as well. A glorious magnolia tree
was just coming into flower in the little front garden.

Agatha rang the bell. An elderly man answered the door. He was small and round-shouldered, wearing two pullovers over a frayed shirt and baggy stained trousers. His face was wrinkled. Spare
lines of greased hair covered a freckled scalp. His faded blue eyes looked at Agatha. ‘So it’s you. Nosey parker.’

‘This is Thomas Courtney, Miriam’s son,’ said Agatha.

‘Oh, I do be right sorry. Come along in. The missus is poorly today.’

‘What is up with her?’ asked Tom sharply.

‘Her do have a bit of a cold.’

‘I might wait in the car,’ said Tom nervously.

‘It’s just a cold!’ exclaimed Agatha. ‘Not the black plague.’

‘Very well,’ he said reluctantly.

Mrs Beagle was crouched in an armchair beside the fire. The room smelled strongly of urine, coal smoke and wintergreen.

‘Here’s Miriam’s boy,’ said her husband.

Mrs Beagle was as wrapped up as her husband and every bit as stooped and wrinkled. Agatha mentally removed them from her list of suspects. She estimated they would both have difficulty getting
across the street, let alone murdering John Sunday.

Agatha looked around her, but there was nowhere in the small parlour to sit down. Charlie Beagle had sunk down into an armchair facing his wife. There was a battered sofa but two large somnolent
dogs were stretched on it.

‘Did you see anyone near the manor before it went alight?’ asked Agatha.

‘In the middle of the night!’ said Charlie. ‘Us were asleep. Didn’t hear about it till morning.’

‘About John Sunday,’ pursued Agatha, ‘you were at that protest meeting.’

‘And a fat lot of good that did,’ said Mrs Beagle. ‘Jabber, jabber, talk, talk. Nothing could be done about that horrible man.’

‘Apart from Miriam and Miss Simms, did anyone else leave the room?’

‘Not that I noticed,’ said Charlie. ‘But me and the missus, our sight isn’t as good as it used to be. But good riddance to Sunday, I say. He was after stopping us putting
up the Christmas lights. Such a display we had every year. We was in the
Cotswold Journal.
I’ll show you. They sent me a photo and Fred Summer got one as well.’

He shuffled over to a table by the window, piled high with magazines, newspapers and photos.

‘Here we are. Just you look at that!’

Agatha studied a colour photograph showing the two cottages. The outsides were covered with Christmas lights. The Summers had a plastic Santa and plastic reindeer riding on the roof and the
Beagles had a lit-up plastic crèche in their front garden. Perhaps the only thing John Sunday did in his life that became it, thought Agatha, who had seen a performance of
Macbeth
once, was blacking out this monstrosity.

Then her bearlike eyes narrowed. Surely Charlie couldn’t be that infirm if he had got the plastic Santa up on the roof, not to mention wiring up all those lights.

‘What a lot of work,’ she said. ‘It must have taken you ages.’

‘I starts around the end of October, yes. Bit by bit.’

‘And did you get that Santa up on the roof all by yourself?’

‘Easy There’s a skylight. I just push it up through there.’

‘Do you want to ask anything?’ Agatha turned to Tom, who was standing with a handkerchief covering his mouth and nose.

He gave a muffled ‘No.’

They took their leave. ‘You really are terrified of infection,’ said Agatha when they were outside.

‘I hate colds.’

‘I don’t think there’s much point in interviewing the Summers,’ said Agatha. ‘On the other hand, they might have seen something.’

‘Do you mind if I wait outside?’

‘Not at all,’ said Agatha, her interest in him dying by the minute.

The Summers seemed mirror images of the Beagles, except that Fred Summer looked fitter. His wife also had a cold and was coughing miserably. Agatha felt the air was full of
germs and began to sympathize with Tom.

Fred’s story was almost the same as that of Charles Beagle. They had visited the vicarage, more in the hope of some cakes and tea than out of any hope that something about Sunday might be
resolved. There was one piece of additional information. Fred and Charlie used to compete to see which one of them could have the most dazzling display at Christmas, but as they both got older,
they had begun to help each other.

Agatha thanked them and left. Tom was standing outside, a light breeze ruffling his hair. He looked so handsome that Agatha felt a lurch in her stomach. It suddenly seemed a long time since she
had enjoyed any sex whatsoever, and she felt her hormones raging.

Toni and Roy came rushing up to join them. Toni looked excited. ‘Tilly Glossop was out,’ she said, ‘but her neighbour, a Mrs Crinch, came out to talk to us. She does not like
Tilly. She said that Sunday was a frequent visitor but that the day before the murder, she heard Sunday and Tilly having a terrible row. When he left Tilly’s cottage, Sunday shouted,
“Get it through your head, we’re finished.” To which Tilly said, “You’ll be sorry”’

‘I think what we should do’, said Agatha, ‘is accept Mrs Bloxby’s offer of tea and go through what we’ve got. We’ll need to dig up all we can about
Tilly.’

Mrs Bloxby suggested they should take their tea in the garden as the day was fine and it would give Mrs Raisin a chance to smoke.

‘You
smoke!’
exclaimed Tom. ‘Don’t you know what you are doing to your lungs? And what about other people? Have you never heard of passive smoking?’

‘We are out in the open air,’ said Agatha huffily as they helped Mrs Bloxby to arrange chairs round the table in the garden.

Mrs Bloxby watched the emotions chasing each other across Agatha’s face as she looked at Tom: an odd mixture of exasperation, disappointment and lust. Odd, thought Mrs Bloxby, I never
thought of Mrs Raisin as a
lustful
person – more of a romantic. Does she not realize that inside that handsome exterior is probably a very prissy man? Just look at the way he is
polishing that already clean seat with his handkerchief.

Toni and Roy arrived to join them, saying they had not been able to find Tilly Glossop and all the other villagers had shunned them as if they had the plague.

After tea and cakes had been served, Mrs Bloxby asked how they were getting on. Agatha outlined the little they had found. When she had finished, she said, ‘I don’t
know what’s happened to Bill Wong. He usually calls round. I thought that after the death of Sunday he would come to see me. I tried phoning but he is always busy.’

‘Oh, I quite forgot to tell you!’ exclaimed Mrs Bloxby. ‘He called me on the telephone some time ago, saying that Detective Sergeant Collins watches him like a hawk and Wilkes
said he was to give you no help whatsoever because he did not want outsiders meddling in police work.’

‘Considering the crimes I’ve solved for the police in the past, I do think that’s a bit thick,’ said Agatha. ‘I might drive over later and see if he’s at
home. Have you heard any gossip about Tilly Glossop?’

‘Only that she is not very well liked. There are remarkably few newcomers in Odley Cruesis, compared to the other villages, but such as they are complain that she is very rude to them. May
Dinwoody and Carrie Brother are quite popular. Miss Brother is considered an eccentric. What makes you think that the death of Mrs Courtney and the death of Mr Sunday are connected?’

‘It stands to reason,’ said Agatha. ‘She told Charles she had remembered something. Miriam probably told whoever it was and they decided to kill her.’

‘But the killing of Mrs Courtney was quite elaborate,’ said Toni, ‘whereas the killing of John Sunday looks more as if someone just stabbed him in a rage.’

Tom gave a laugh. ‘It’s a good thing I have a solid alibi or I would be number one suspect.’ He took a packet of moist disinfectant tissues out of his pocket and began to clean
his hands.

Agatha gave a little sigh. There he sat, the epitome of manhood with his handsome face, his strong throat and his strong figure, fussing away like an old woman.

‘Where are you staying, Mr Courtney?’ asked Mrs Bloxby.

‘At the George in Mircester.’

‘Do you plan to stay long?’

‘Just until all the legal business is settled. Pretty nearly finished. I should be off back to the States in a week or two.’

‘I heard you have a sister,’ said Mrs Bloxby.

‘Yes, Amy. She’s leaving all the business side of things to me. Mother left everything equally to the two of us.’

‘Her death must have come as a terrible shock to you both.’

‘Well, ma’am, it did and then it didn’t. Mother had a bad knack of rubbing people up the wrong way.’

‘But surely she cannot have been the type of lady to drive anyone to murder!’

‘To tell you the truth, I’ve been racking my brains and cannot really think of anyone,’ said Tom ruefully.

Agatha wondered why Roy, usually a chatterbox, was so silent. She looked across at him and saw he had fallen asleep, the spring sunlight bathing his thin face. For the first time, Agatha
wondered why he had come on a visit without phoning first. He had only done that before when he was in some sort of trouble.

‘Roy!’ she said sharply.

‘Eh, what?’

‘I’m going to drive into Mircester to try to have a word with Bill. Want to come?’

Roy straightened up and rubbed his eyes. ‘Right you are.’

‘Perhaps we could all meet at my hotel for dinner tonight. Eight o’clock?’ said Tom.

‘I can’t,’ said Toni. ‘I promised Sharon I’d go to a disco with her.’

‘And I, alas, have parish duties,’ said Mrs Bloxby.

‘We’d love to,’ said Agatha, wondering if she could persuade Roy to stay in for the evening. Tom was a bit fussy, that was all.

On the road to Mircester, Agatha said to Roy, ‘Out with it.’

‘Out with what?’

‘I feel something’s bothering you.’

‘Oh, that,’ said Roy bleakly. ‘I suppose it’s no big deal. It’s just that I’ve lost all interest in the job.’

‘Who are you handling at the moment?’

‘Paper Panties.’

‘I thought those things went out with the sixties.’

‘They want them back and I’ve got to get the media interested.’

‘So? You just do your job as usual. You know what it’s like, Roy. Remember all the lousy accounts I had to cope with.’

‘I don’t get on well with foreigners.’

‘What kind of foreigners?’

‘Bulgarian. The girls are pretty, the ones they get to model the panties. But the people who run the company treat me like dirt. In fact, they’re pretty threatening. In fact, they
give me the impression that if they don’t get maximum coverage, I’ll end up off Westminster Bridge.’

‘I’m surprised at your boss taking them on.’

‘They sent an English rep to the office to set it up. Very correct, upper-class-twit type. I want out of it.’

Agatha furrowed her brow in thought. Then she said, ‘Oh, I’ve got it. Sometime today we’ll stop off and get some cheap stationery, put on gloves and send a nice anonymous
letter to the vice squad saying it’s a front for prostitution and the models are sex slaves.’

‘Aggie!’

‘Well, think about it. The police will feel compelled to investigate. You tell your boss that the reputation of his firm is in danger and you’ll be off the hook.’

‘But forensics!’ wailed Roy. ‘What if we even
breathe
on the paper!’

‘You’ve been watching too much
CSI
on television. Have I ever let you down?’

‘Well . . .’

‘Leave it to me.’

They were in luck. Bill Wong’s formidable parents were out shopping. Bill’s mother was a Gloucestershire woman and his father was originally from Hong Kong. Agatha
thought they were both horrible, but Bill adored his parents.

‘You’ve been avoiding me,’ accused Agatha when Bill opened the door to them.

‘It’s Collins. Wilkes wants me to have nothing to do with you and she watches me all the time.’

‘Well, she isn’t around now,’ said Agatha cheerfully. ‘Let us in. We need to talk.’

Bill led them into the lounge. There was a new three-piece suite covered in plastic. ‘You’d better get that plastic off before the warm weather comes,’ commented Agatha,
‘or it’ll stick like hell.’

‘Oh, it’ll keep it clean for a bit,’ said Bill. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Miriam Courtney’s son has arrived. He wants me to find out who killed his mother.’

‘Why now?’ asked Bill in his soft Gloucestershire accent. He had a pleasant round face with almond-shaped eyes. ‘I mean, he didn’t even bother to turn up for the funeral.
Neither did his sister.’

‘It seems as if Miriam had as little to do with them as possible and they didn’t like her one little bit. He’s over to supervise the selling of the property. That’s why
he’s suddenly turned up.’

‘But you would think he would call on the police first before hiring a private detective.’

‘I am very good at my job,’ said Agatha.

‘But people normally only hire a private detective in such circumstances as a last resort. They question the police first.’

‘Have
you got anything?’ asked Agatha.

‘No, and we’ve tried and tried. It’s a very close-knit village. Take the case of John Sunday. He was so unpopular all round that any number of people could have wanted him
dead.’

‘Tilly Glossop in particular,’ said Agatha, and told him Toni’s news.

‘We’ve interrogated her several times,’ said Bill. ‘Saying to someone, “You’ll be sorry,” is hardly a reason to arrest them.’

‘And Tom Courtney was definitely in the Cayman Islands?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the sister?’

‘In Philadelphia. She’s married to a Dr Bairns.’

‘And the doctor vouches for her?’

‘He was away at a medical conference in Seattle. But she was staying with a friend, Harriet Temple. Believe me, they were checked out. And Miriam did tell Charles that she was on to
something. And before she went to bed on the night she was killed, she phoned the vicar’s wife and said she knew who had done it.’